


Look Once, Again (Or 'The Four Times Michael and Lincoln Could Have Been Caught and the One Time They (Maybe) Were')

by Foophile



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Canon Compliant, Community: rounds_of_kink, Drabble Collection, M/M, PWP, Pre-Canon, Public Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foophile/pseuds/Foophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of the other counselors in his cabin have gone home for the holiday weekend and Michael planned to attack the pile of mystery novels his foster mother mailed to him when Lincoln ambled in like a summer storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look Once, Again (Or 'The Four Times Michael and Lincoln Could Have Been Caught and the One Time They (Maybe) Were')

**Author's Note:**

> Grabbed some great info about the Illinois tribe and the language (or close to the language) they may have spoken from [ here](http://www.museum.state.il.us/muslink/nat_amer/post/htmls/il.html) and [ here](http://www.myaamiaproject.com/publications.html).
> 
> Any misunderstanding of culture is completely my fault and I humbly apologise.

1.

The curtain next to the bed blows in on a gust of cool lake air and linen brushes over Michael’s shoulders, drifts down like summer’s kiss to Lincoln’s sweaty back. His brother shivers at the touch even though the humidity of the cabin feels as if they’re breathing through a down blanket.

All of the other counselors in his cabin have gone home for the holiday weekend and Michael planned to attack the pile of mystery novels his foster mother mailed to him when Lincoln ambled in like a summer storm. They tumbled onto his bunk within minutes, his reading forgotten.

Now, Lincoln’s spread out face down over his cotton sheets like a sacrifice to the Gods. Michael licks his dry lips, runs his hands over every part of skin he sees. He can’t help but land one stout smack to the round curve of his brother’s ass, watching the skin go pale then flush vermillion – a perfect stamp of his hand. Lincoln grunts at the sting.

“Kinky bastard.”

Michael doesn’t bother with a response. He knows how much Lincoln loves this. Besides, he’s got his mind focused on something else.

His brother tastes like sunshine and tanned flesh, the tang of salty sweat swept away with his tongue. Lincoln’s spine tightens as his mouth moves down over muscles that Michael secretly envies, bows when Michael runs his teeth over the slick skin at the small, and then twitches when Michael’s mouth trails lower still.

Lincoln jerks then lets out a lengthy groan as Michael runs the flat of his tongue over the dark rosebud of his ass. Michael answers him with his own moan then spreads Lincoln wide with his thumbs and wiggles his tongue against the tight pucker, savoring the musky flavor. He prods and licks and sucks, wanting to be covered with the taste and smell of Lincoln, drown in what he’s been missing for a month.

His brother’s cursing and bucking, ass bumping Michael’s face until Michael clenches his fingers into the soft flesh to the point of bruising. Lincoln shouts, calms to whimpers and gasps, to abortive thrusts that curl his strong body like a serpent.

Lincoln’s cock feels scalding hot in his fist, wet with sweat and pre-come, and Michael pumps him fast and hard for a minute, two, then lets the rigid flesh go. Lincoln whines so deliciously that Michael has to grip the base of his own cock to stave off orgasm.

He goes back to toying with Lincoln’s bottom, lightly scraping the delicate skin of his rim with his teeth then plunging inside with his tongue as deep as he can go. His hand comes back around and deliberately misses his brother’s hard cock to pet the soft skin stretched over his pelvis. He strokes the joint where Lincoln’s thigh meets his hip just once and his brother comes screaming into his pillow, cock untouched.

It’s only after Lincoln’s body stops shivering that Michael focuses on his own pressing need. The rush of cicadas’ war with the static building in his ears and the rasp of his hot breath. He looks down, at Lincoln’s ass shining with his saliva and red with bite marks and bruises from his fingers.

His brother bows his back again, like he did when he came, legs spread open wide, and Michael can see his dark hole flex, can still taste it on his tongue and smell Lincoln all over his face.

Michael comes hard, heart stuttering in his chest, and paints Lincoln’s ass with his release. He’s still panting a minute later, stripping his cock until it’s too sensitive to touch anymore.

Lincoln’s watches him come down over a sweaty shoulder, his mouth bitten pink and swollen. “Jesus, Michael.”

Michael licks his lips and can still taste earthy, perfect musk.

“Consider that your punishment for showing up unannounced.” He smacks his brother’s ass one more time to seal the point, rubs a streak of his come into Lincoln’s gleaming skin.

Lincoln laughs smooth and calm, like what the camp is named for _Nipi_ , water. He flips onto his back like a fish and the summer breeze sweeps over them both again.

“Then I’m not sorry.”

Lincoln’s skin glows, his smile as warm as the sun. Michael thinks of the paperback Miami-Peoria Dictionary his bunkmate showed him, the Native American language apparently originally spoken in this area, and the few words that stuck in his memory.

 _Aahsanswaka_ , I place him in the sun. Michael thinks, staring. _Aahsantee_ , it shines.

2.

They both have stale coffee breath but that doesn’t matter. Lincoln’s pushing, directing Michael to right where he wants him. Michael trips over a can and a concrete wall catches him, knocking the breath from his lungs long enough for his brother to push the air back in. The wet smack of their lips echo loudly in the cavernous garage until the squeal of tires further away drowns out the sound.

When they finally separate, the smell of gasoline sneaks past their combined aftershaves and Michael breathes it in. He thinks that fuel is the perfect metaphor for the both of them right now: combustible.

Lincoln’s teeth bite into his neck then lick at the small hurt like he didn’t do it deliberately. He has to know the way that Michael’s body flashes hotter, how the bite translates into luscious pain, travels along every nerve of his cock.

The dark corner of the garage is lit vermillion from the overhead exit sign, the only thing motorists' would see as they left unless their headlights happened to catch two tall figures huddled in the corner. Even then, the driver’s eye would skitter off; quickly label the anomaly as more industrial engineering or another homeless person. The illusion of safety will shield them for a few more precious moments and they cling to that as tightly as they do each other.

Michael moves to push some of Lincoln’s layers away and touch skin, maybe rake his nails (innocently) down his brother’s sides, when beefy hands clasp his wrists and pin them to the wall over his head. Lincoln pushes in, the only thing Michael can see, and kisses him hard then soft – apologizing again for the rough treatment.

“No time for all that.” His brother grunts in explanation. A push at Michael’s hands is followed by the command to “stay”. Michael does so only because he’s practically vibrating with expectation.

Lincoln quickly unfastens Michael’s linen trousers and does little more than reach in for his cock and pull him out into the garage’s sweet humid air. Some more rustling and Lincoln’s thick cock is exposed and pressing against his own. Michael stares at Lincoln staring at his own hand jerking them both, at the sweat dripping from the blunt tip of his nose to land on Michael’s skin. His brother’s mouth is open and wet, their thighs touching and shifting mindlessly to twist this way and that.

All Michael can do is watch and thrust into calloused tightness. The sound of the city during lunch hour is as good as another caress and he’s coming with a barely muted cry, his hands balled into fists, still in position. Lincoln’s riding his coattails, gasping his orgasm into Michael’s cheek.

When they start to gather themselves Lincoln mumbles another apology at the little bit of come on the bottom of Michael’s shirt. His own hand is a mess of the both of them and Michael offers his handkerchief with a roll of his eyes.

Their last kiss starts out short and sweet until Michael pulls him closer with a hand on his nape. His blunt nails dig into the short hairs, his tongue lashes want over his brother’s palate and his teeth bite at Lincoln’s thick bottom lip until he tastes blood. When he steps away Lincoln’s eyes are wide and dark. His eyes telegraph his surprised confusion and underneath blazing heat.

Michael pockets the soiled napkin with a smug grin and heads over to his building’s elevators. They never need to apologize for what they do.

3.

His brother’s on his knees on the hard floor, his mouth filled with Michael’s cock and moaning like he’s the best thing he’s eaten all week. Lincoln’s fingers are guiding Michael’s hips to move, use him the way Michael whispered in the elevator, a tease that drove them both out into the hallway but no further.

Michael runs a hand over the stubble of Lincoln’s scalp and closes his eyes tight so that he can hold on. He can feel his brother shiver when his fingertips brush behind his ears and he keeps it up, wants to torture Lincoln just a little bit. The slick sounds alone are driving Michael’s body to the edge, heat burning through his veins like lava.

They are five feet away from his neighbor’s front door, an academic German couple that for Christmas gave him a pound of gourmet coffee and a book on Nihilism that he never read.

Right before Michael comes he thinks, _my sperm has no meaning_ , and nearly bites his tongue in half as his brother drinks him down. He catches his breath on puffs of chuckles; Lincoln doesn’t look amused and is still hard in his jeans.

Just after, the door cracks open and both brothers dash down the hall so fast that they slip-slide on the polished marble. Michael slams his door shut on a heavily accented voice asking if there’s someone there.

He wonders if the couple will figure it out before glancing over at Lincoln and deciding that it doesn’t matter.

4.

The towel rack protests Michael’s death grip with rhythmic squeaks that match the hard and fast pounding of his body. Lincoln’s panting and grunting behind him like an animal, his breath hissing into Michael’s neck when Michael moves his hips just so, arches into pain-laced pleasure that make his knees wobble. His brother feels huge, keeps nailing that spot inside him until they’re both shaking.

Lincoln’s foot slips off the bottle of baby oil he dropped on the floor and Michael’s forced to steady himself. He thinks the rack’s bound to be ripped off the cabinet and wouldn’t that be something to explain when Lisa gets back?

They’re taking such a risk doing this here, in Lisa and Lincoln’s apartment – in their kitchen, while Lisa and little LJ are making the holiday rounds to her friends and family (all of whom hate Lincoln). But it’s been almost a year of conflicting schedules and family time and kindergarten and acting like they’re not completely immersed in each other’s lives. Right now, they’ll take whatever they can get.

Michael’s hand sends the hanging light over the kitchen sink swinging when he reaches behind his head, his fingers aching to touch Lincoln’s face, feel if it’s as sweaty as his own. The wool of their sweaters catch as they try to get closer while still wearing most of their clothes, pants pushed down to tangle around their ankles. When Michael opens his eyes he can see the snow blowing across the jungle gym through the kitchen window.

They have an hour, maybe two, until they have to actually start doing the huge pile of dishes still on the dining room table. That’s plenty of time to do this right.

Lincoln smells like the roast beef they had for dinner, his arms are so tight around Michael that it’s hard to breathe, his hands burn like brands under his ribs, and Michael’s other hand falls away from the rack to clench around Lincoln’s thigh, careless of bruises.

They slump to the floor when they both come and Michael meets Lincoln’s dark eyes knowing that they’re going to do it again.

The kitchen tiles are cool on Michael’s back. The tilting light flashes off twisted chrome.

5.

Only the night and cracked pillars hide them from the three convicts inside. Two are asleep but Michael thinks that he can see Sucre or C-Note sitting up behind the tattered industrial white plastic, his shadow like an antique silhouette.

The grasshoppers are loud in the field which the brothers sit. Lincoln’s been silent for hours, the cell phone still cradled in his palm, still on as if he expects Veronica to call him back. His eyes are dry but rimmed a pale vermillion from his rubbing. They both stink of sweat and grime but they touch all along one side, close enough to feel the other breathe or shiver with the enormity of their loss.

Lincoln’s parched throat clicks when he finally swallows and speaks. “It’s just us right now. Just us.”

Michael assures him with a solemn nod. “Just us.”

Then Lincoln closes the short distance between them and kisses him like his heart is breaking.

The wind blows strongly across the field and Michael can hear the plastic behind them snap, knows that with a flap of the edge they could be discovered but he doesn’t care.

Among the weeds, in the middle of nowhere, on the edge of the law, and in the middle of a conspiracy, in this moment it’s just them. Just for now.

END


End file.
